


Whiskey Kisses

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, John Keats - Freeform, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Poetry, Romance, Shakespeare, The Bachelor's Soliloquy, The Invitation, Whiskey - Freeform, robert burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: An AU loosely based on Benedict Cumberbatch's performance of Sonnet 155, in May of 2010, in which he is not only an up'n'coming Actor, but a talented Poet as well.





	1. Chapter 1

“Honestly, Moira, I’m just not up for this tonight.”  Rosalind ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it in frustration, while drawing a long, deep breath.  Despite her protestation, she knew her objection was bound to be overridden.

“You’re  _never_ up for it, Roz—and its damn time you should be.”  Moira hooked her arm through her friend’s, patiently tugging her along, “You’ve spent too many months moping over that miserable tosser, and I consider it my personal mission to finally drag you back into the world of the living.”

“Can’t we do this another night?  I’m exhausted, Moira,” Rosalind grumbled, “We had a party of twenty-four American tourists during tonight’s dinner rush, and I ended up staying two hours past the end of my shift.”

“Well, you’ve got all day tomorrow to get some rest,” Moira promised “And with any luck, you’ll be sleeping off a well-earned hangover.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, muttering her exasperation—but allowed her best friend to drag her through the dark oak door of  _The Gilded Cage_ anyway.

The pub looked to be near capacity, which wasn’t a surprise for a Saturday night.  Moira was scanning the room; she squeezed Roz’s arm and gave an excited little squeal when she spotted Derek near the far end of the bar.  Moira’s boyfriend grinned and raised his nearly empty pint, then waved the women to come over and join him, before draining the rest of his beer.

“Hey, babe,” he said, opening his arms to wrap them around Moira, “What the hell took you so long?”

Moira planted a heady kiss on his lips, and then wagged her head in Roz’s direction.  “My fault, Derek,” Rosalind admitted, “I begged her to come here without me, but she insisted.”

“That’s my girl,” he winked, and then leaned closer to kiss Moira again.  He turned back to the bar and flagged over the nearest bartender.  “Two more of these,” he nearly shouted, trying to top the music volume, “And?”  Derek looked to Rosalind.

“Vodka and cranberry…please.”  Rosalind felt trapped for the moment—but hoped the drink might help her to relax a bit.  The bartender nodded and went to get their drinks.

Roz looked over at the small dance floor, which was packed with gyrating bodies, the music—courtesy of a deejay—retro 90’s.  She wished (yet again) that she was home in bed with a good book (lately it was  _The Mists of Avalon_ ; an escapist fantasy with a key element of unrequited love—because even her diversions these days had to contain a touch of what ailed her), or falling asleep to one of her standby favorite films.  Instead she was stuck here—albeit with a group of good friends—the only single in a gaggle of couples, expected by her dearest friend to fake it ‘til she finally felt like having an actual social life again.  She grabbed her drink from where the bartender had set it down, and followed Derek and Moira to a table near the small stage.

Kelly and Jake, and Eileen and Tom, sat waiting for them; they had pushed two small, round tables together so they could all sit together.  _Brilliant_ , Roz thought;  _guess that makes_  me  _lucky number seven_.  The couples exchanged greetings, while the newcomers took their seats.

“You are gonna  _love_  this guy, Roz,” Moira informed her for what had to be the sixth time, “A voice like smooth, dark velvet.  And his poetry is really,  _really_  good.”

Rosalind sighed and sipped her vodka and cranberry.  “Sure, Moira.”   _Whatever you say_.  She watched while the others made small talk for several minutes, listening to the indistinct chatter of audience members, as one song ended and the next began.  When that number finished, the lights came up on the small stage, set with only a bar stool.  With that, Roz’s group, and the rest of the crowd around them, fell silent, visibly anticipating the scheduled performer.

He entered from the narrow wing of the stage with no ceremony at all—not even an introduction—with a maroon folder tucked under his arm, and carrying a small tray lined with several shots and a bottle of water, which he set upon the stool.  He grabbed the cordless microphone left on the stool for him, and then moved downstage center.

Rosalind hadn’t given thought as to what he might look like.  Moira, Kelly, and Eileen had raved about him; his voice, his movement, his stage presence.  His poetry, which Moira had promised Roz would fall in love with.   _Rigggggght_.  Still, Rosalind thought the man with the confusingly complicated name, defied  _any_  preconceived notion.

Tall and slender, straight-backed and long-limbed, he moved with an astonishing balletic grace, clearly comfortable in his skin.  He was fair-skinned, with a nest of rather unkempt dark curls as his crown ( _he probably aims to look casually_   _mussed_ , she thought,  _but the effect_ is  _quite…compelling_ ).  He wore a light gray tee beneath a scuffed, black leather jacket, a grayish-purple cashmere scarf artfully wrapped around his neck, and faded jeans frayed at the hems, atop a well-worn pair of black keds.  Nonchalantly put together, he seemed, yet lithe and quietly elegant, with a controlled tension in every line of his body which was evocative of an arrow in the bow before the archer let it fly.  Poet he might be, Roz reckoned, but in physical form, an unexpected bit of poetry himself.

The crowd—predominantly female–remained hushed in expectation, eyes riveted on the lone figure on stage.  He bowed his head and drew several breaths, as though centering himself, and when he raised his face to the waiting audience, he had changed somehow.  Had become the Shakespearean character whose verse was soon to flow from…well, the center of his chest.  That’s how it looked to Rosalind, anyway–the passage from  _The Comedy of Errors_  familiar to her, yet spoken as she had never heard it before.

 _Sweet mistress, what your name is else I know not,_  
_Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine;_  
 _Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not_  
 _Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine._  
 _Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;_  
 _Lay open to my earthly gross conceit,_  
 _Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,_  
 _The folded meaning of your words’ deceit._  
 _Against my soul’s pure truth, why labour you_  
 _To make it wander in an unknown field?_  
 _Are you a god? Would you create me new?_  
 _Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield._  
 _But if that I am I, then well I know_  
 _Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,_  
 _Nor to her bed no homage do I owe;_  
 _Far more, far more to you do I decline;_  
 _O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note_  
 _To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears;_  
 _Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;_  
 _Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,_  
 _And as a bed I’ll take thee, and there lie,_  
 _And in that glorious supposition think_  
 _He gains by death that hath such means to die;_  
 _Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink._

Moira had been right about one thing, at least.  The guy’s voice was golden; a rich, deep baritone that seemed to penetrate Rosalind’s mind  _and_  body swiftly, decisively, and without a touch of pretense.  Whatever else he was, this man  _knew_  how to wield his god given gift with rare skill, and even the timing of his breathing reinforced the picture that his words painted.  And there was a helluva lot of heart coming through in his recitation—as though Antipholus lived within his skin, and this man…this Actor…was connected intimately, soul to soul, with the character.

The last word of his oration lingered on the air, the audience suspended in awe for several seconds before applause began to build.  Yet the actor remained in character; he bowed his head again, the character still—but when he looked up to acknowledge the resounding acclimation of the crowd, he had become himself again, smiling diffidently, the slight crookedness of it absolutely natural and indelibly endearing.   _He’s_  not  _doing this for the_    _applause_ , Roz told herself, recognizing something kindred to her spirit, in his own;  _it’s the_ work _that fulfills him, gives him satisfaction_.  Whatever Muse he serves, Rosalind understood the gratification of it—though her own attempts at poetry fell too often short of such success.

Still grinning, he bowed at the waist, bobbing his head a bit in reply to the crowd before straightening.  He turned and downed a shot (eliciting scattered bursts of amiable laughter throughout the audience), and followed that with several swigs of water.  His eyes, bright with amusement, raked across the patrons seated near the stage, and for a couple of heartbeats, Rosalind felt fixed in their beautiful regard.

“Beautiful regard”?   _Well, there’s some poetry right there_ , she realized;  _I could_   _use that line sometime,_ if  _I write it down right now_.  But Rosalind couldn’t do that at the moment; she couldn’t rifle through her bag for her notepad and pen; she couldn’t even break from his bold gaze, overcome with the ridiculous notion that this beautiful stranger saw her—and somehow— _oh_   _somehow!_ –understood her sorrows and her failed aspirations in a single, anonymous glance.   _This is too much…too soon_ , she thought;  _and please,_   _don’t look at me that way_ , she begged him silently;  _no one gets to look at me that way…and goddammit…it hurts…_

His pale skin was now flushed, likely more from his performance and the crowd’s enthusiastic reception, than from the heat of the stage lights.  The remarkable geography of his face–the well-defined cheekbones, the peerless arch of his brows, his perfect mouth (which struck Roz as being made in equal measure for long, deep kisses as for the art he had embraced)—put her in mind of a Bernini sculpture. But no work of marble had the vibrancy and warmth of his sincere smile; no statue, such poise when he was still–or such kinetic elegance as he moved.

“Thank you,” he grinned, covering his heart with his hand, touched by the reception of the crowd, “Thank you!”  His voice was far less formal, though clearly trained–a silken pleasure for the ears.  “I’m Benedict, and in case you didn’t guess already,  _that_ was just a bit of the Bard—and one of my favorites.”

His next piece—though unfamiliar to Roz—was humorous and deftly delivered; the man displayed exceptional comic timing ( _surely the Actor in him_ , she mused), his manner clearly inviting the audience in for the full effect of the joke.  He had an appealing ease about him, as he played with the sound of the words, his facial expressions exaggerated and reinforcing the comic beats.  Pausing for another quick shot, he followed that poem with  _Ae Fond Kiss_  by Robert Burns, conveyed in a flawless Scottish brogue, while he ranged dramatically across the stage, playing directly to the closest tables.  Somehow, once again, his eyes met Roz’s—and she had only a moment to read their warmth and mirth, before he winked.  At her.  Winked  _at her_ , a pleasant enough surprise to make her cheeks flush and her heart speed its beat.  This time she wished he wouldn’t turn away–though of course he moved along, even as he finished the verse, returning to center stage, briefly acknowledging the applause, before closing his eyes and composing himself for the next poem. ****

Roz had already been impressed with how seamlessly he became a new character with each piece; his voice, face, even posture and body movement, uncannily suited and fully committed to his portrayals.  Now he became completely still, breathing deeply while pulling back into himself, shaking off all theatrical tricks.  When he opened his eyes he looked suddenly… _vulnerable_ …leaving her riveted; she was certain by the third line of his recitation that  _this_  piece was his own–and that it arose from a place in his soul.  There was a naked truth to the words and phrases he put forth, and in the pauses as he drew breath, so that she swore she was seeing the poet  _behind_  the poem; a man striving, with hand on heart, to express his vision of the world—or in this case, his vision of the life he longed for, with a helpmate who would share his dreams.  The humble candor of his words, his imagery, and the cadence of his delivery, hit her with an immediacy that touched her for his sake—and that reminded her of the passions that had led to her own, best poetic attempts.  This actor…artist…poet—this Benedict—seemed to speak her language fluently, and Roz found herself wishing he might read  _her_  words aloud sometime, with the same intensity which infused his own.

The poet exhaled with his final line, and bowed his head at the conclusion, not even trying to hide his truth as he rubbed the tracks of his tears from his cheeks.  Looking back up, he smiled sheepishly—a youthful, crooked, sincere smile, that held all the power of the sun after days and days of rain—and as the applause mounted, he bowed at the waist in recognition and gratitude, before springing over to the stool, and downing two shots of whiskey in quick succession.  A ripple of laughter by the audience eased him back to center stage and his final few pieces.

He finished the set with Keats’s  _Ode to a Nightingale_ —stirringly, evocatively, beautifully voiced in his rich, velvety baritone.  Yet Rosalind decided that she still preferred the Poet’s own, unnamed work, beyond every other poem in his performance, hoping that he would present more of his own work later in the evening.  He appeared both pleased and genuinely humbled by the enthusiastic applause, grinning as he gave the crowd a deep, lingering, straight-backed bow before nodding to them and waving a farewell as he exited the stage.

The applause faded, and the stage lights dimmed once he had exited, though the energy of his performance remained, animating and warming the crowd.  Moira looked to Rosalind for her reaction, “Good, right?”

“That was…wow…” Rosalind was speechless a moment, running through a silent list of superlatives which failed to capture the essence of his performance.  “Damn.  He  _is_ good.  And…and…so much more than good…his voice alone…”  But what could she say to adequately describe the magic of that silken baritone, let alone how he used it—painting vivid pictures and creating characters that breathed with truth, both effects seeming effortless, and in less than a half-dozen lines in some cases.  “Incredible,” she said at last, unable to voice her true appreciation for his work.

Moira was laughing, enjoying the sight of her normally silver-tongued friend, tongue-tied with wonder.  “Pretty easy on the eyes, too—don’t you think?”

Rosalind rolled her eyes. “I suppose,” she smirked, reading Moira’s intention easily—she’d do anything to dislodge David from his hold on Roz’s heart.  “But with a voice like  _that_  he could look like Quasimodo, and his recitations would still be magic.  And there’s something…vaguely familiar about him.”

“Yeah, I think he’s done a bunch of stuff on television,” Kelly chimed in, “A couple of movies, too.”

“Hmmmmm,” Rosalind tried to figure out where she might have seen him before–-and laughed when she realized the answer.  Her friends looked at her perplexed, waiting for an explanation.  “ _Starter for 10_ ,” she grinned, “He played that blonde prat with the stick up his arse.”

“Oh, yeah…total knobhead!” Eileen exclaimed.  “But how can that be the same guy?”

“He’s…he’s good,” Roz offered, “Really,  _really_ , good.”  An astonishingly talented chameleon, apparently; and–-as Moira had conveniently pointed out–-pretty easy on the eyes.  She glanced at her friend, who was watching her carefully.

“Mystery solved, then,” Moira smirked, “You must be ready to call it a night now, Roz.  Exhausted from that dinner shift, right?”

Rosalind sighed, and shook her head, acknowledging that her friend knew her only too well.  “I think I’m fine for now, Moira…I’m, uh…I’m sure I can manage to make it through his next set.”   _At least_.  She clinked her empty glass against Moira’s, “So tell me, please–whose got the next round?”


	2. Chapter 2

Having decided to remain long enough to see the Poet’s second set, Rosalind settled in for the duration, relaxed in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time.  It was true, what Moira had said—Roz had cut herself off from even the simplest, everyday joys of life, as she mourned the loss of a relationship that she had been far more invested in than her ex.  She really had forgotten how much fun it was to just hang out with her friends, and to drink for pleasure and not as a means to dull the pain.  Tonight might be a step towards brighter days; it was, at least, a much needed break from her self-imposed solitude—and from feeling sorry for herself.

Every table near the stage was full, and the pub still looked to be hosting pretty close to capacity.  Servers were squeezing between tables, doing their best to deliver drink and snack ordersbefore the next performance began.  The crowd’s anticipation was palpable, and infectious enough so that Rosalind felt the shared excitement as a thrill of butterflies in her stomach.  A pleasant sort of sensation that she hadn’t felt in ages.

The lights dimmed once again, fading all the way to black for several seconds, and the audience immediately hushed.  When the spotlight came up on center stage, Benedict was already there, turned upstage to face the curtain dressing the back wall.  He waited a beat, and then turned dramatically to the audience, reacting as though he had not expected to find a room full of people waiting upon him.  He shrugged, silently acquiescing to their presence, and plopped down on the front of the stage, letting his long legs dangle over the edge—immediately breaking the fourth wall, with his opening lines:  

 _To wed, or not to wed;--that is the question:_  
Whether 'tis nobler in a man to suffer  
_The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer;_  
_Or fly to arms against a host of troubles,_  
_And at the altar end them..._

Recognizing the piece as _The Bachelor’s Soliloquy_ —an irreverent, funny take on Hamlet’s far more famous soliloquy—Rosalind grinned, enjoying how the Poet played the crowd.  Either pleading with the men, or commiserating with them in the spirit of the verse, while scowling at the women, and teasing them as well.  Roz herself was not excluded from his playful notice, as hand on heart, he lavished his lyrical voice upon her:

 _…he himself might his redemption gain_  
_With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun_  
_To toil and plod over a barren heath_

 _But that the dread of something yet beyond--_  
_The undiscovered country, from whose bourne_  
_No bachelor returns…_

Normally, such attention would have had her sinking into her seat—but she was actually glad she was seated ringside this night, able to be included in his game--and surprised herself by answering his attentions by blowing him a saucy kiss.  Moira let out a hearty ‘ _whoooo_ ’ to see Roz play along, while Eileen snorted unladylike laughter.  Improvising brilliantly, he mimed as though to catch her kiss, though it fluttered right past him, to his pouting consternation.

The audience cheered at the finish, and he laughed quite a bit, flashing Rosalind a quick wink before he rose and moved along to his next bit.  Moira gently elbowed her in the side, and leaned close enough to whisper for her ear alone, “I think you have a fan.”

Roz immediately shushed her, finding the idea far too silly to be true—though a small part of her was wishing it could be so.

The theme of the set was apparently the foibles--as well as the wonders--of love, which Benedict explored in a host of poems, many of them off the beaten track.  He included three of his own works, two of them humorous, and one very wistful.  Student of language and poetry that she was ( _student_ and _ever-clumsy practitioner_ , she admitted ruefully), Roz could soon tell which works were his own, even before he mentioned that fact, following each recitation.  She liked his style; none too serious, quick-witted, and surprisingly ingenuous; and it seemed he held no hesitation in revealing his heart within the context his work. 

Having completed one of his own—the best of what he’d presented that night, in her humble view--the Poet bobbed his head, grateful for the kind reception to his work, and waiting as the applause peaked and then began to fade.  He became completely still, and the skin on the nape of Roz's neck prickled with anticipation.  There was something about the stillness of his pose, and how the spotlight bathed his fair skin--starkly highlighting his extraordinary male beauty--which seemed to promise that whatever came next was important to him.  Whether it was another of his own poems, or some other artist's work, Rosalind felt certain that it was personally significant.  He had become the arrow once again, waiting to fly from the bow, poised with absolute confidence that he would hit his mark.  With the first line--delivered in his rich, clear baritone--she recognized with soul-shattering clarity, that  _she_  was the unintended mark.

“ _It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,_ " he began, " _I want to know_   _what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing_ …”

 _Why_ , she gasped, too softly for her friends to notice,  _why_  this  _one?  Is it_   _the universe’s way of rubbing salt in my wounds?_ In a heartbeat, all the pleasure of the evening had turned to ash in her mouth…

“ _…I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive…_ ”

Her heart was hammering a shocked, frantic beat.  Of all the poetry in the English language, why must he recite one of the  _handful_  of poems that held such rich, yet bittersweet, meaning for her?

“ _…I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow…_ ”

 _That I have_ , her mind shouted, while she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears birthed by his soulful recitation.   _God knows I have—now please,_   _please…please…stop_.  This man—this intriguing stranger—was crushing her one word at a time, laying bare her misery with unknowing, velvet precision…

" _I want to know if you can sit with pain,_ " he continued, unaware he was killing her softly, even while he delivered the blows with an angel's voice, " _...mine or your own..._  "

Against Roz's will, her tears spilled forth, as she recalled the Valentine's Day and the framed print--now sitting in the back of her closet--which David had presented her, bearing this beautiful bit of poetry.  He had never,  _ever_ , been able to say 'I love you' out loud--but knowing her fondness for the piece, he had come as close as he ever would, by letting its verses speak for him.

" _...if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes..._ "

Rosalind hastily swiped the tears from both cheeks, struggling to keep herself from sobbing aloud.  Oriah Mountain Dreamer.   _The Invitation_.  A bittersweet arrow right to her heart.

" _It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.  I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back..._ "

 _Oh, David!  For you, I could have…I…I honestly would have_.  Roz felt drained of all strength; she couldn’t have held her head up, even if she had the will to do so.  She listened listlessly as the Poet concluded, and as the audience applauded him—and all she wanted was for him to be done, so she could slip away from her seat, and hide in the ladies room.

Mercifully, it turned out to be the last poem in his set; the houselights came up once he exited, and the crowd around her went from low murmurs to full voiced conversations.  Rosalind glanced at Moira, who was watching her sympathetically, and stood up, shouldering her pocketbook; Moira made as though to stand as well, though Roz shook her head ‘no’.  Thankfully, her friend understood that she just needed to recover on her own.

* * *

 

Rosalind emerged from the restroom fifteen minutes later, composed enough to return to her friends, though in need of a stiff drink.  She had repeatedly bathed her face with warm water, seeking to erase the telltale red blotches that would show the world she had been miserably crying.  She hoped it was enough; her eyelids remained a bit puffy, even though her eyes were no longer red-rimmed.  She made a beeline for the bar.

Customers ringed the bar at least three people deep, but her anonymity in the midst of the crowd helped her to regain her equilibrium, as she waited on her turn to place her order.  Once there, she laid down a ten-pound and two single-pound notes on the bar, and asked for another vodka and cranberry juice, along with a side shot of vodka.  The bartender set the shot before her, and Roz downed it before he’d finished mixing her drink.  “Keep the change,” she told him, as the vodka spread a trail of much needed warmth from her throat down to her belly.

Highball glass in hand, Rosalind closed her eyes a moment, preparing to dive back through the people crowded around her, to rejoin Moira and her other friends.  She felt--as much as heard—a sinfully silken voice croon close to her right ear, "You alright, love?"

She turned her head in an instant at the newly familiar voice, and at the light stirring of his breath against her hair.  Surely, he was only this close because of the press of the people around them; he was simply ordering a drink, and it was only coincidence that had brought him so near to her.  "I'm...I'm fine," she managed, too surprised to find him beside her to manage any share of convincing bravado.

"Good," he nodded, reaching past her to grab a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks, only seconds after the bartender set it down, "You looked a bit...overcome...at  _The Invitation_."

"Oh," she barely whispered, lowering her eyes, too self-conscious from his frank observation to even wonder that he had noticed her reaction amidst his performance.  Roz felt an embarrassed blush heat her cheeks; she certainly could not reveal her failed romance, nor the tangle of emotions that had brought on her tears.  Not to a virtual stranger.  Not to  _him_.  She cleared her throat quietly, hoping she did not stumble in her reply, "I'm...I'm sorry...it's just always been one of my favorites...and you...well..."  She braved a sidelong look, and found him watching her intently.  "And you spoke it so...truthfully...so beautifully...that I couldn't help...being moved..."  Roz hoped with all her heart that her explanation was satisfying enough to keep him from asking for more.

"Ahhhhhh," he rumbled, narrowing his eyes a bit as he continued to study her, "Please--please don't  _ever_ apologize for giving a performer _exactly_ what we're up there for.  If we...if  _I_...can move just one person...to laughter, to wonder, to empathy, or even to tears...than I know I'm doing something right."  His smile was warm and endearingly crooked, charming Roz despite the fresh reminder of her heartbreak, and the self-consciousness that came along with finding herself the subject of his--her mind flew back to that first moment his eyes had captured hers from the stage--his beautiful regard.

He tipped his glass towards her a moment, and took a brief swallow of his whiskey, before adding "And if you can forgive me saying so, your spontaneous, heartfelt reaction is a compliment far beyond  _any_ of the applause I've gotten tonight.  So I must thank you, Miss..."

She answered without pause, the warm silk of his voice persuasive enough to overcome her usual caution in sharing her surname with veritable strangers, "Williams...I'm, um...Rosalind Williams."

He quirked one brow, looking quite satisfied, while exclaiming softly, " _O_ _Rosalind!  The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she!"_

Rosalind's mouth dropped open in surprise, the verse vaguely familiar.   _As You Like It_.  Of course...

"Too much?" he asked unrepentantly, daring her to say 'yes'.

Roz shrugged, but smiled nevertheless, "Mayyyyyyybe just a little..."

Benedict lolled his head to one side, grinning sheepishly, "I just  _had_  to push it, didn't I?"

She giggled--something she hadn't really done in months.  "That's okay," she assured him, "It's been a while since anyone even  _tried_ to push it...with me, I mean...so...I think I can take it."

At just that moment, the crowd behind her shifted, and Roz was suddenly nudged forward, trapping her almost flush against his chest.  Disarmingly and delightfully close to him now, she was struck by the warm scent of his cologne mingled with notes of the whiskey he was drinking, and a slight underlying bit of tobacco.  She let out a surprised, breathy 'oh' without meaning to, her head tilted back as she looked up at him, unwillingly transfixed by the pale fringe of his long lashes and the amused appreciation in his widening eyes.  Roz managed to squeak an apology, but then fell mute in study of his face.  In study of his lips, so kissably close.

"No problem, love."  Benedict's voice had dropped so low that Roz was sure she was the only soul to have heard him; and whether by design, or simply by nature of his gift, his voice was like a smooth, seductive caress--one that she could not ignore.  There was something knowing in his confident gaze, as though he was well aware of the effect of his voice upon her.  His face hovered over hers, and she could nearly taste the whiskey on his breath.  "Look, I've...um...I've still got one more set," he told her, "Would you, maybe...uh...stick around for it?  Have a drink with me...after?"

"I'm with...I'm here with some friends..."  Rosalind suddenly wished that she wasn't.  Wished that she could promise this compelling, fascinating, rather handsome man,  _anything_ he might ask.

"Oh, right,” he murmured, “I noticed that.  You’re the single among the pairs…”

Rosalind pursed her lips, a tiny flame of irritation blooming in her chest, “Yes…yes I am.”  She tossed her head and did her best to eye him imperiously, “And thank you ever so much for pointing that sad fact out!”  Had she been wishing he might ask her to join him for more than a drink?  She must have been daft to even consider it.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Before she could turn and lose herself in the wall of people around her, he laid on gentle hand upon her shoulder.  “Please, Miss Williams…Rosalind, if I may presume…”  She might have shrugged his hand away, but that he truly looked contrite, “I’m sorry—honestly.  That was an observation I should have kept to myself…”

“Damn right you should have,” she huffed, softening just a tad at the softness in his pale, blue eyes.  And as his eyes plead his case, she found it difficult to maintain her ire, justified as it was.  He was really very…winning--and obviously much too charming for her own good.

“It’s an awful habit I have,” he confided, leaning closer, as though he’d already won her goodwill back, “Open mouth, insert foot—on a regular basis.  But I _swear_ I can do better.”  He pouted as he waited on her to decide if his blunder was forgivable—and beamed a sunshine smile when she sighed and rolled her eyes.  “And now you _must_ let me buy you a drink or two, to, um…make up for me being such an arse.”

“Well, I dunno.  I might be better off sticking with my friends.”  A small voice inside was begging her to give into to his humble-sounding self-deprecation.  It had been ages since any man had offered to buy her a drink—especially one so charismatic and utterly lush.  Yet she didn’t want to seem too eager, despite the fact that her irritation had dissolved into a bunch of butterflies trapped between her ribs and her solar plexus.  “How about this,” she asked him, trying not to sound a nervous as she suddenly felt, “How about I think about it during your next set?”  He flashed a toothy grin, so that she had to add, “Impress me.  Show me your best stuff, and maybe… _maybe_ we can have a drink.”

The Poet ( _Benedict_ , she reminded herself; _his name is Benedict_ ) threw back the remainder of his whiskey, set the glass on the bar, and made a show of wiping the excess from his lips.  “O fair Rosalind—I swear to you:  you ain’t seen nothing yet!”  He wiggled his brows suggestively, and melted away into the crowd.

Roz remained rooted to the spot several seconds longer, already certain she’d be indulging his request—against her better judgement—and without further moment’s hesitation.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: events in this AU take place circa Spring of 2010--which should account for the drink prices briefly mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> 'The Bachelor's Soliloquy' is an anonymously written piece, dated to sometime during the 1890's.


	3. Chapter 3

Moira looked relieved as Rosalind took the seat beside her, giving her a quick, one-armed squeeze around her shoulders as she leaned close enough to ask quietly, “Storm passed, Roz?  I was starting to think you might’ve bolted.”

“Nah, I’m good,” she replied, hoping her sudden little swell of excitement over the evening’s prospects wasn’t as obvious as it felt, “In fact, I’m remembering how fortunate I am that knobhead David has moved along for good now.”  She took a healthy swallow of her cocktail before adding, “And I’m actually feeling like I’ve got my second wind.”

Her best friend looked perplexed for an instant, then flashed a victorious grin, “That’s the spirit, luv!  I knew you just needed to step out a bit, and you’d get your game back.”

Roz’s eyes briefly flitted to the empty stage, and she felt a small, pleased smile tickle the corners of her mouth; she paused and then murmured nearly to herself, “I dunno about ‘game’…but I feel like _something_ pleasant is in the offing…if…if I’m bold enough to let it come…”

* * *

Having resolved to stick around after the last set, Rosalind decided to let the ice melt in her glass enough to water down the rest of her drink—for it wouldn’t do to start their _tete a tete_ at less than her full wits.  She might not be quite the match for Benedict’s obvious sterling intellect, but at her best she knew she had a talent for wordplay, and the thought of engaging in such clever flirtation with him had her quickly wishing he would cut this set short.  As entertaining and as brilliant as it was, it also seemed to her the longest of the night.

He was even bolder this time around, pointedly seeking her eye with certain lines of poetry, and even amidst rounds applause.  Several times over, so that Roz wondered if any at her table had taken note—and though she did her best to school her face from giving her thoughts away, she wondered if any of her girlfriends had noticed her appreciation for his attention, along with her growing impatience for the best part of the evening to commence.  Benedict had certainly made her blush—leaving her to wonder if he’d meant to—when he had motioned her way while reciting a brief bit of Romeo’s musings from the party scene when he had sighted his own Rosaline.  “ _So shows a snowy dove_ _trooping among crows,_ ” the poet had proclaimed audaciously, making her cheeks pink with a self-conscious blush, “ _As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows_.”  That earned Rosalind a light elbow jab from a surprised--albeit impressed--Moira.

Benedict dashed to the wings of the stage as the final applause of the evening faded away and the house lights came up again.  The same retro music from earlier in the evening filled the room, and people were rising from the tables to circulate through the crowd, many of them to depart the pub for the evening.  Eileen and Kelly made a beeline for the loo, hoping to beat the inevitable lines, while Tom and Jake invited Derek to join them for a game of darts on the far side of the bar. 

Moira had grabbed her compact from her bag to freshen her lipstick, and Roz figured the time was good as any to tell her that she planned to stick around a while.  “Um, Moira,” she began, knowing her friend was bound to be gobsmacked by her announcement, “I’m gonna stick around a while longer…”

“Oh?”  Moira tucked her compact and lipstick back into her handbag, only paying half attention for the moment.

“Yeah…um…I’m actually having a drink with someone I met at the bar…”

Moira’s eyes widened into saucers and she gasped happily, “Really, Roz?  Brilliant…it’s about damn time, too!”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, replying sheepishly, “Yeah, I know…I…I know…”

“Please tell me he’s dishy…” Moira grinned, “I mean he _must_ be to have gotten you to agree to it!”

“Hmmm…yes…I think he is,” Roz shrugged, looking down to hide her own silly, girlish grin, “He’s quite fit, in fact…not that it really _matters_ …”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Moira laughed, “What’s this Prince Charming’s name then?  And do I get to meet him first, to make sure that he passes muster?”

“Oh, he’ll pass your muster alright, dearie,” Rosalind assured her with growing confidence, “In fact, he’s the reason you brought me here tonight…”

“Huh?”

Just at that moment, a shadow fell across the table, giving answer to Moira’s questions without Rosalind having to say a word.  “Still up for that drink, Rosalind?”  His voice was rich with good humor and unspoken possibilities.

Roz felt a flush of warm expectation flood her cheeks, and found herself grinning up at him, “Absolutely.  I was just…um…telling my friend about your…invitation.” 

Moira was watching them, surprised and speechless, so that Benedict extended a hand her way, smoothly introducing himself, while Moira finally sputtered hello.  He looked back to Roz, “Give me ten minutes?”  He motioned behind him to a trio of people standing near the stage, “I’ve gotta have a quick chat with these folks—a professional courtesy thing—and then I’m free for the night.  Do you mind?”

She shook her head, amused by Moira’s shocked silenced, enchanted by Benedict’s gracious manner.  “Not a bit,” she told him, “I’ll just wait right here?”

“Brilliant,” he replied, flashing Moira a winning smile before winking at Rosalind cheekily--like a promise of things to come—and headed over to the group waiting on him.

Flabbergasted, she quickly exclaimed, “Damn, woman—how the hell did you manage that?”

Rosalind couldn’t help the toothy grin that greeted Moira’s question.  “I…well…it just sort of…happened…”

“Riggggggggght…”  Moira shot a glance towards the uncommon fellow at the foot of the stage—the one who had somehow gotten past Rosalind’s staid defenses—the selfsame man in the midst of an animated conversation with his acquaintances.  Her brow creased in equal parts concern and consternation, she asked protectively, “And…and you’re quite _sure_ about this?” 

“Of course, I am,” Roz insisted, swirling the dregs of vodka and cranberry at the bottom of her glass while reminding her friend, “ _You’ve_ been pushing me for weeks to let loose and have a bit of a lark.  She leaned a little closer, wanting to put Moira at ease, “And it’s _only_ going to be a drink or two…besides which, you know me well enough to know I won’t be doing _anything_ foolish.”

Moira nodded, and sighed hard at her own brief flutter of doubt.  “Alright. Alright then.  So…we’ve got brunch with Derek’s family tomorrow, and it’s at least an hour drive, so we…uh…we really do need to call it a night,” she told Roz. 

“I know…and you needn’t worry, Moira.  I’ll be fine, I promise,” Rosalind assured her.  “I’m a big girl and I can find my own way home… _safely_ home…regardless of his…um…intentions.”  The notion that such a tall drink of water might harbor _any_ sort of intentions toward her sent a swarm of butterflies aflutter in her belly.  _I suppose we’ll see about that,_ she mused; _I mean, how lucky_ can _a girl get?_

* * *

Rosalind busied herself with her mobile while she waited for Benedict to join her, trying her best to not look as nervous as she was beginning to feel.  It had been several years since she’d had a first drink with _any_ man, let alone one so charming, bright, and attractive—and she fervently hoped it wouldn’t show.

As good as his word, Benedict returned by the time Moira and Derek had settled their tab and left for the night.  “Ah…alone…at…last…”  Benedict wiggled his brows provocatively, although the genuine mirth in his striking, cat-like eyes, along with his shit-eating grin—which had somehow melted his perfect jawline into a nest of multiple chins—belied any inuendo he might actually have intended.  He produced a two-thirds full bottle of Green Label Johnnie Walker, along with two ice-filled tumblers, from behind his back, and set them on the table before her.  Roz laughed, surprised at his assumption, and watched him take the seat to her right, quickly realizing he held no qualms about broaching her personal space.  Realizing too, that she didn’t mind that one bit.

“I’m not a whiskey drinker,” she informed him, liking the way he studied her face, starting with her eyes, and eventually lingering on her lips, before shifting his focus back to her eyes again.  She exhaled slowly and looked away, not wanting him to grasp--all too soon--how attracted she was to him.

Benedict nodded and drew a deep breath.  “Yes, I figured as much.  Which is why I’m gonna teach you, fair Rosalind.”  Without waiting for her reaction, he tipped the bottle to fill both glasses nearly full.

“Stop that,” she urged him, her mouth going a little dry at how easily he seemed to read her, “Pu…please…”

“Stop what,” he countered gently, “The whiskey…”

“Re…reading me,” she answered, finally daring to meet his miraculous gaze again, “Reading me as though you know me all too well.  Calling me fair…and…and such…” 

He slid the cool glass against her fingers, smiling softly, “Sorry.  Seriously.  I know I can get carried away sometimes.  My flair for the dramatic.”  Again, he seemed so sincere, Rosalind quickly put her objection behind her.  “But as for seeming like I know you too well—I have to claim occupational hazard.”  He shrugged, setting his own glass in front of him, “I’m a keen student of human nature—and not _just_ because of my craft.  It’s something I’ve done my whole life.”  The honesty in his eyes was undeniable—and tinged with soft vulnerability and a hint of unexpected…sadness.  ‘Twas an echo of the voice of his own poetry—and left her feeling she was speaking with a true kindred spirit.

Rosalind blinked several times, changing the subject to distract him from any unintended reveal of her own vulnerability, “So what’s this then?  I’ve been drinking vodka—is it a good idea to mix something else with it?”

“This…hmmm…this is top shelf stuff, darling.  Only the best for your…um…untried palate.  I swear it!”  He patted her hand, the warmth of his long, graceful fingers soothing enough to make her wish he would hold her hand.  A charmingly stubborn crease had appeared atop his nose, and Roz found herself fascinated with its endearing effect, while he issued a fair promise, “You’ll swear off that vodka, love, once you’ve got a taste of this.”

“Well…I don’t know about that,” she teased lightly, now they had come to it, “I might end up looking pretty foolish when the burn hits.”

“Come now,” he implored her, his voice pure velvet flirtation, “You don’t strike me as a girl afraid to embrace new experiences.  I’d bet my evening’s wages on it.”

From any other bloke, that would have sounded like pure, overconfident hyperbole, yet his eyes—his exotic, soul-piercing eyes—took her measure in a way that spurred her to accept his challenge.  _This is ridiculous_ , she was thinking; _I’m not going to do this just to impress a man, no matter how charming he is_.  No matter how heady it felt to be the sole focus of his attention.  No matter how the heat of his hand laid over hers now made her wonder what it might be like were he to smooth his elegant fingers along her cheek, and then the skin of neck, in a slow tease further downward until he traced his fingertips in concentric circles upon her breast.  Rosalind bit her lip against that uncharacteristic but luscious thought, shocked to feel her nipples tighten at the brazen ache to have it so.  She wondered if it showed on her face as surely as it did through the thin material of her blouse.  The finest of smile lines creased his cheeks as he watched her, as though he understood the sinful path her thoughts had just taken.

“Go on, love—it’s got the smoothest, most delicious warmth going down.”  His eyes widened slightly, gaging her assent before she even made reply.  “I promise that you won’t regret it, Rosalind,” he added, the play of her name on his tongue more intoxicating that anything she had already drunk this night.

She raised her chin defiantly, locking eyes with him, “Alright then—I’m game for it.”  Roz took the glass in hand, noting the cool condensation beneath her fingers, and brought the whiskey to her lips, lingering a moment over the scent of the clear amber fluid, its notes far more familiar and comforting than she ever would have expected.  Shortbread cookies and allspice.  Vanilla bean and banana.  Scents that surrounded her on a regular basis, whether at work or in her own little kitchen.  She closed her eyes, and wishing to be bold in front of him, took a deep swallow.  It was silky on her tongue and soft as it went down, tasting far better than she had originally anticipated.  Benedict had called her palate untried, but he could not know yet that it wasn’t untrained; with her second mouthful, Roz detected honey, nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla, colored with subtle wisps of smoke and malt--and at the end, the lingering flavor of toffee.  The whiskey’s warmth was liquid courage that spread from her throat to her chest, relaxing her and beginning to soften her inhibitions.  “Not bad,” she admitted huskily, “I had expected more of a bite.”

Benedict hummed appreciatively and raised his glass, allowing the light to highlight the honey colored liquid, “Some of the best surprises come in unexpected packages.”  Humor tinged with warm appraisal gleamed in his captivating eyes, suggesting that he spoke of more delicious surprises than just the taste of even the best libation.  He took a long draught, emptying half his glass, and rubbed the excess from his lips with a swipe of his thumb, the smile that followed rife with mischief, “Don’t you agree, Miss Williams?”

She breathed out slowly and nodded, forthright in meeting his gaze.  “It’s something I’m coming to learn, Sir,” Roz countered, tapping her glass against his, “So shall we drink to more of the same?”

* * *

Relaxed and nicely warmed by the whiskey, Rosalind allowed Benedict to refill her glass, as he prompted her to tell him about herself; his attention to her ordinary details was…well…extraordinary and sincere.  Before too long she had divulged her occupation as a pastry chef at restaurant in the West End, the school where she had studied the culinary arts, and her dream of opening her own gourmet bakery someday—though she did not share her failed aspirations as a poet with him, too daunted by his skill with words to even mention it in passing.

He was easy in sharing his details as well, so that Rosalind soon surmised he had the gift of the gab—though in his defense, he really didn’t seem to have uttered an unnecessary word.  It wasn’t a case of him loving the sound of his own voice or simply being bombastic, for he really had quite interesting things to say, and even his tangential comments were filled with purpose.  Sharp wit and self-deprecating humor were his native key, and a salty tongue was soon revealed under Johnnie Walker’s influence, as he peppered their conversation with the occasional curse or two.  Nearly forty-five minutes had passed, as they chatted and worked towards polishing off the bottle, but to Roz it had seemed like only half that, at least.           

Having first beheld him from her stageside seat, Benedict’s masculine beauty had put Rosalind in mind of a Bernini sculpture, faultless and perfectly sculpted, too dauntingly ideal for an ordinary woman such as herself, to aspire to catch his attention.  Up close he was no less beautiful, though he was not flawless—but each wee imperfection made him even warmer and more appealing to her, and were somehow in keeping with the vital warmth of his personality. Roz found herself fascinated by the little scar beneath the corner of his mouth, denying both the urges to gently trace it with her fingertip and to ask him how he’d gotten it.  She marked well the sinful fullness of his bottom lip, unable to keep herself from wondering what it would feel like against her own, and imagining—as a brief flush of heat threatened to rise in her cheeks—how it might taste were she to tease it’s plumpness between her lips, and run the tip of her tongue along its length.  Speculating what sort of sounds would rise from him then.  And fancying that he would be moved enough to answer her boldness with deep, deep kisses, sealing her lips with his, stealing her breath away, while he filled her mouth with the insistent whiskey flavor on his tongue.

And her eyes were drawn back again and again to his own, their light crystal clarity and striking shape unlike any she had seen in a man before.  Extraordinarily expressive, they reflected his easy humor, honesty, and intelligence, and were surprisingly mercurial in hue, ranging from the palest blue of an early spring sky to a deeper, more intense blue with the play of light, with tinges of green and flecks of gold coloring his irises—all as though Nature had chosen to mimic the colors of some glorious nebulae in his eyes.  Rosalind felt they could aptly pull her into an unintentional orbit, from which she’d have no desire to escape.

The pub had quieted as their discussion continued, the crowd thinning out as the hour neared 1:00am, but still the Poet held her rapt.  They’d finished the bottle—with Benedict signaling for a fresh round without even a break in their conversation--and Rosalind felt the pleasantest, most relaxed buzz she had felt in ages, so that she had to try her best to keep from slurring her words and looking foolish.  He obviously had a higher tolerance for the stuff, though he became quite indulgent, giving her his warmest smiles while daring to stroke his fingertips on the bare skin of her arm.  Quite naturally the gap between them had lessoned, and somehow his face was mere inches from hers, while his voice had slipped intimately low and persuasive.  Fuzzy-minded she may have been, but Roz was well aware that his focus repeatedly returned to her lips—especially when he whet his own and smiled at her beguilingly.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the power of words…,” he’d been telling her, when she asked what had drawn him to becoming a poet, “…the written word…and the spoken word…”

“I know.  Me too…I’ve…I’ve felt that too,” she interjected, eagerly taking up his thoughts, uncannily similar to her own on the topic, “Fascinated…and enamored…by the _potency_ of the images such words can create…”

“Yes,” he whispered at first, his voice rising huskily as he continued, “You _do_ get it…I _thought_ you might understand.  From the way you listened.  And the way you looked as…as I recited.  Not just _The Invitation_ , but all of it."  He seemed to hold his breath a moment, then added--almost shyly, "My own poetry included.”

Tongue-tied and made self-conscious by his acute perception, Rosalind gave a little shrug, and bowed her head, finally murmuring, “That’s why my friends brought me here tonight.  They know my weak spot.”

“How very fortunate for me,” he mused sincerely, the honey of his baritone thrumming a pleasant thrill in her chest, “Well, I should have thanked them, love.”  Benedict lifted her nearest hand, to twine his fingers through hers, “You really _are_ a rare treat…fair Rosalind.”

This time she felt no objection toward that sweet endearment, daring to meet his eyes again, silently reveling in the warmth of his touch.  She had noted that he had the slightest but most adorable lisp now that the alcohol had loosened his tongue and she found her eyes blatantly lingering on his tempting mouth, admiring the enticing shape and the visible texture of his lips—and suddenly wishing he would just kiss her already.  Wishing for the courage to shamelessly close the space between them and taste what was so tantalizingly close.

His eyes widened, as though again her thoughts were obvious to him; his pupils were large, rimmed with wondrous color, and Rosalind would later swear that she read his intentions in their compelling depths moments before he spoke. “ _The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the seas,_ ” he recited--literally for her hearing alone—while allowing his lips to ghost past her cheek, leaving them to hover a whisper from her ear.  “ _What are all these kissings_ _worth, if thou woulds’t not kiss me?_ ”.

“That’s…that’s Shelley…isn’t it…” she asked quietly, barely finishing her thought, overwhelmed by how intimately close he had become. 

“Yes, love,” he answered, sounding amused, whether by her unexpected question or by her growing vulnerability in response to each advance, “Exactly so.”  The silken caress of his voice raised the fine hairs on Rosalind’s neck and sent a delightful shiver along her spine, the warmth of his breath upon her skin dissolving any shred of decorum she would normally muster.  She closed her eyes, every sense attuned to the small space where they connected, waiting, wanting, needing whatever he intended for her.  Knowing that in moments he would brush his lips on the cup of her ear—softly gasping when he did so.  “Is this alright?” Benedict rumbled, and the only answer Roz could manage was a quiet moan as she softly nodded her head.

That was consent enough, it seemed; he splayed one strong hand on her upper back while slowing trailing the fingertips of his other hand on the back of her hand, and then along her arm from her wrist to her elbow, and back again.  The warmth the whiskey had spread through her veins paled compared to the heat kindled by his patient touch.  And then—inevitably--he began to tease his tender, plump lips on the side of her neck, soon humming appreciatively, murmuring against her skin, “Christ…you smell…mmmmm… _delicious_ …”

“Yes…I suppose I do…” she murmured back, pleased by his note of surprise, and well aware that her ‘perfume’ was only the scent imbued in her skin by her workday. “But am I savory…or am I sweet,” she asked, finally feeling some share of control over what was blooming between them.

Benedict sighed hard, “Ahhhhh…sweet…so very, _very_ sweet….”  He nuzzled just below her ear, inhaling deeply, “Such sweet temptation, dear Rosalind—that how am I to resist wanting to sample _all_ of your flavors?”

“Please…oh, please,” she barely whispered--though in her mind she was begging full-voiced for him to follow the natural course of things between them, “Won’t you please…just…kiss me…nowwwww…”  Roz tilted her head back, panting, ready, praying that he would not disappoint her, offering her lips to him with fervent anticipation

His initial kiss was soft, warm, electric—a taste of more to come, a confirmation of desire.  Rosalind fluttered open her eyes when he withdrew, breathless for him to continue, and dazzled to be fixed in his avid gaze.  Though he paused only briefly, his smile in those few seconds was full of wicked promise, and she felt like it took forever until his lips met hers again—though it proved well worth the wait.

First kisses possess a magic all their own, testing if attraction holds true, plumbing the quality and truth of chemistry, be it between two strangers or those who’ve been acquainted for some time.  After years of couplehood, Rosalind had forgotten how marvelous they could be, and her heart surged with wonder as this beautiful stranger overwhelmed her with tender insistence, patient for her to follow his lead.  Benedict laid one hand against her cheek, stroking along her cheekbone with his thumb and tracing small circles with his fingertips upon the side of her neck, and moved in for a second kiss.  His perfect lips felt like some long-awaited benediction on her own kiss-starved lips; like a blessed recompense for all the lonely nights she’d spent cloistered in her flat grieving lost love.  But most of all like they’d been waiting to discover hers and it was simply delicious fate now that she should surrender to them.  To him.  Roz heard herself moan, heard a deep sound of satisfaction rise from him, and then she was opening her mouth beneath his, tasting the whiskey they had shared, tinged with spearmint and cigarette smoke, so that she dared to finally touch him as he teased the tip of his tongue along the inside of her lips. 

His skin was warm and firm as she smoothed her right hand against his face, a little rough where stubble shadowed along his jawline; Rosalind threaded the fingers of her left hand into his mess of thick, silky curls, and he rewarded her with a sensuous growl into her mouth.  The thrust of his whiskey flavored tongue against hers was slow, inexorable, irresistible, while the spark of his touch made her ache for his hands to grow bolder, erasing any care for propriety she might have in so public a place, while awakening needs she had buried deep through months of miserable solitude.

He kissed her timelessly, holding her face in his hands as she melted for him, and when he finally paused and pulled away he left her panting for more.  Benedict stroked her chin while tracing her open lips with his thumb.  “ _You have witchcraft in your lips,_ ” he told her softly, borrowing from Shakespeare once again, “ _For there is more eloquence in them than in any words that I might muster.”_  Once more that devilish smile graced his lush lips, and he urged her on, “ _Sweet wench, and fair, come kiss me again._ ”

Thus flattered and emboldened, Rosalind eagerly gave back in divine measure her own whiskey fueled kisses, enticing from him a deep-throated groan as she sucked on his full bottom lip, and then drew his tongue back into her mouth.  Benedict wandered a hand down and cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb against her tightened nipple, making her whimper and further deepen their kisses until they had to finally break apart just to catch their breath.  He leaned his forehead against hers, caught up in the heat building between them; having invaded her every sense, he told her inevitably, “We should take this someplace more private, don’t you think?” 

Up close this way, the power of his voice was irresistible; the rich, dark chocolate of it become an invitation to bedroom fantasies of untold hedonistic pleasures, playing out on silken sheets; of being so caught up in a lover’s caresses that one would gladly forget all things except the taste and the touch of him, and every exquisite moment of exploration on the way to voluptuous consummation.  Rosalind hadn’t the strength or the will to decline.  She nodded, relieved that he had asked, astonished to think he wanted her—her promise to Moira to behave sensibly completely forgotten.  “Yes,” she whispered as he dipped his face to paint her throat with hot, moist kisses, gasping hard when he brazenly flexed his palm and fingers upon her breast, “Whatever…whatever you say, Benedict…whatever you…whatever you want…”  Surrendering to his will this way seemed the easiest, least complicated choice she had made in her life...           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have taken some liberty with Shakespeare's words, but I think the Bard wouldn't mind all that much, as the point is to charm the lady and keep the kisses coming!)


End file.
